


To the Best and Worst of Times

by Foreverwholockedme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Sherlock Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1596194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foreverwholockedme/pseuds/Foreverwholockedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are both retired and are still living together. Sherlock is diagnosed with Alzheimer's and suffers through the hell that it brings with only John to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Best and Worst of Times

No one expected it to happen. Nobody thought that anything like that could happen, that it was even possible. When they heard the news, no one knew how to react, how could they? No one ever saw this coming. Not even the affected person himself. He was just as shocked as the rest, possibly devastated and no one could blame him. And the news that left everyone speechless?

Sherlock Holmes has Alzheimer’s.

It wasn’t uncommon for people in his age group to get it. He was in his mid-sixties, sixty-five years old, with John being a tad older than him. But that wasn’t the reason for everyone’s astonishment. It was the person who was diagnosed with the disease. Out of all of his friends, and out of anyone else in the world that could have gotten it, it had to be the man with one of the greatest minds that the world has ever known. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Detective was now suffering from the effects of the mental disease that plagued him. He would slowly lose his memory, of things that happened in his past, from yesterday morning to Monday morning from thirteen years ago. And the worst part about it was the fact that he could very well forget John. His John Watson, his husband of seventeen years. He could have no recollection of all of the cases they solved together, detective and blogger, partners for life. He could probably remember little tidbits of his past, but not all. He prayed that he would still preserve that brilliant mind, that he wouldn’t let this disease get to him. But that was probably asking for too much, while Sherlock could do a lot of things, he couldn’t do that. It would be asking him to play God, which Sherlock would love to do.

But John Watson, being the ever so faithful spouse and friend that he is, promised himself and Sherlock that he would stay by him, no matter how hard it got. He vowed it to Sherlock on their wedding, in front of all their friends and family, and to the marriage officiant who married the two together. He can never get that smile that Sherlock had on his face that day. That smile was so rare and to have it plastered on his face for more than a minute was a treasure that he bestowed upon John. The man to whom he was getting married to was the high functioning sociopath, the psychopath, the freak who had no friends and wasn’t liked, and was now saying “I do” to the one person he loved more than anything else in the world. He knows how proud Sherlock was feeling of himself that day because he felt it too. But now it’s very possible that he will be the only one out of the both of them to remember that. But he will do everything in his power to help Sherlock, he can’t do it on his own, and he would hate it if the tables were turned and the person he was married to for so long just up and walked out on him because of a condition he couldn’t help but get.

They first started to figure out that something was wrong with the man’s brain because he would forget what he was doing, often times while he was doing it. At first, John dismissed it as nothing important, because Sherlock has always been like that, his mind raced too fast for him to process at times. But as the days went by, John was starting to seriously worry for his partner. He would find Sherlock misplacing objects and then denying that he touched them when confronted by John. John hid his agitation by putting on a face he taught himself to make whilst talking to the great Sherlock Holmes. It wasn’t until one day when John returned from grocery shopping to finding a kettle on the stove with the flame burning too high. John immediately set the bags down and rushed over to the burning kettle whose whistle was loud enough for the next door neighbors to hear. He swiftly turned the knob that ceased the flame and went scouring the house for Sherlock.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, where are you?!”  John shouted with a masked fury.

He didn’t have to shout for long, for there was the person of wonder, standing in front of the ex-soldier with his hands clasped together and staring into those stern blue eyes with his own anxious grey ones.

“Oh, you’re back.”

John felt his hand curling into a fist. He wasn’t going to punch Sherlock, he could never bring himself to do it, there was only one time where he punched the handsome detective, and that was at the behest of Holmes himself.

“Yes, I’m back and the kettle was on fire!”

Sherlock’s bushy eyebrow rose.

“What?”

“What were you doing, Sherlock? Do you understand that you nearly burned our house down? What, did you remember one of your experiments and forget all about the kettle boiling?”

Sherlock cocked his head, the rest of his face now expressing confusion.

“John I…I never put the kettle on the fire. You must’ve done that.”

John stopped dead in his track and pushed whatever rant he had to the back of his head.

“Sherlock, are you serious? Do you not remember walking into the kitchen and filling the kettle with water and placing it on the burner?”

Sherlock looked around, thinking about ever performing that action and shook his head.

“I don’t.”

John stood upright; his defensive stance was gone as he tried to find the reason for Sherlock’s sudden amnesia. The doctor in him was trying to diagnose the man in front of him with whatever matched with the symptoms he has been displaying over the weeks. It wasn’t until Sherlock asked him the question that he finally got it.

“John, are you developing Alzheimer’s by any chance?”

And know here they were. Sherlock was correct in his diagnosis, except he had the wrong person. They returned home after that troublesome doctor’s appointment, both of them were deadly silent, John stealing glances at his husband who was awfully troubled by the news. John didn’t know what to do, he thought that maybe he should try and grab his hand, or move closer to him in the backseat of the cab. He wanted to show Sherlock that he wanted to help him and wanted to comfort him through the rocky road ahead of them but if he knew his partner well, Sherlock hated patronizing. The rest of the time spent at their flat was relatively quiet too, Sherlock sat on his decades old armchair and John in his, he wasn’t reading the paper, or watching the telly, he was watching Sherlock. He was watching him sulk, hands under his chin as if he were praying, silent as ever, pondering everything he heard today, every word, every reaction. John took the liberty of calling Lestrade, and Molly. John had to convince him that it was only because they cared and they wanted to know if he was alright. Sometimes he forgot that he had friends. Hopefully he won’t forget anymore.

John thought that he would have to prompt Sherlock into talking because he was getting worried, whenever Sherlock went into these silent treatments, nothing good ever  arose out of it. Thankfully he was starting to be too old to take cocaine and shoot up on his heroin; he also was starting to dislike the taste that a cigarette left in his mouth, thankfully. Sherlock broke the tension.

“John.”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I need you to promise me something.”

John gulped. What did he need to promise him? Hadn’t he already said he would do everything with and for Sherlock on the day of their nuptials? Biting down whatever worries he had he responded in a hushed tone.

“Anything.”

Sherlock removed his hands and bore his eyes into John’s. If the doctor didn’t know Sherlock for so long, or so well, he would just think that Sherlock was just being his usual cold, and apathetic self. But he knew better. The look in Sherlock’s glossy eyes, he knew that Sherlock was being sincere and that he really needed John’s reassurance. John steeled himself.

“Promise me that you won’t give up on me. That you won’t leave no matter how bad I get. Promise me that what I think isn’t true, that alone protects me.”

John held back the pool of tears in his own eyes. He could only nod and look away from those pleading eyes. When he felt that he could hold himself together for another minute. He slowly got up, and walked over to his ailing husband and grasped his hand. The long, slender fingers that used to be covered in his what seemed like ever-lasting youth was now wrinkled, with a few age spots littered on it. The ring was as shiny as ever, showing John just how much Sherlock really cared about him and how there was a spot for him in that heart that has been shattered, stomped on, and broken so many times. He slowly raised it up to his lips and gently placed a kiss on the gold band.

“I promise you Sherlock, I promise you that I will stick by you for as long as God will allow us. I promise that I won’t give up on you, and I promise that alone doesn’t protect you.”

John choked on the last words.

“That _I_ protect you.”

He saw the thin, pale lips curl into the faintest smile and he was grateful for even that much. He knew that Sherlock was probably scared and that he really needed whatever comfort that could be provided, but he was Sherlock Holmes, as cryptic as ever, so John really couldn’t be sure. What he was sure of, was that he was ready. He was ready to face whatever is to come…  
~~~~~~~~  
Months Later  
~~~~~~~~  
Sherlock was sleeping; John was sitting in his armchair, musing through the crap telly channels, trying to take his mind off of his husband. He knew the symptoms and behavioral patterns of a person with Alzheimer’s, but he didn’t know just how bad it could be. The bursts of frustration, the bouts of depression, the moments of anxiety, all of the times Sherlock forgot where he was, it was too much for John to bear, and it wasn’t because of he was tired of dealing with it, it was because it shouldn’t have happened. It didn’t have to be this way. Sherlock didn’t have to get diagnosed with it; they could’ve lived the rest of their lives in domestic bliss. John wouldn’t have to worry about Sherlock setting things ablaze because he forgot about it; he wouldn’t have to stay awake at night watching Sherlock sleep so the man wouldn’t wake up screaming and fighting him because he didn’t know where he was. They could’ve had their one shot at being a normal couple (as normal as Sherlock gets).

Speaking of the devil, he heard the mattress creak from the pressure of Sherlock getting up. John immediately muted the television and turned his gaze to the curly-haired man that was looking around the flat as if he has never seen it before, much less lived in it for half of his adult life. John wanted to give him a few moments before he started asking him questions. It felt like he was living with a patient. Sherlock had a blue post-it note in his hand and he stared down at it with a foreign look on his face.

“Are you okay, Sherlock?”

Sherlock jumped, startled at the voice. He squinted, looked back down at the note and then back at John, making some sort of connection with whatever was scrabbled on the note. John knows, because he wrote it.

_“Good morning, gorgeous. When you leave this room, you’ll find a man sitting in his armchair. That man is your husband, John Watson, and you love him very much, and he loves you just the same._

_-JW”_

Sherlock nodded and then gave an inquisitive look.

“Are you…John Watson?”

John closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. It hurt him to hear Sherlock ask that question every day. No matter how many times he was told that the person was talking to was John Watson. That John Watson was his husband. He slowly nodded.

“Yes Sherlock, I’m John.”

Sherlock looked as if that part of his curiosity was sated. But another question came to his mind.

“This note here says that we’re married.”

“Yes, we are. We have been for quite some time.”

“How long…have we been married?”

_‘Be strong John, you promised him, and you promised yourself that you wouldn’t give up. This is the man you vowed to love in sickness and in health. It’s not his fault he can’t remember, it wouldn’t be his choice if he had one.’_

“Seventeen…” The word comes out cracked, John can feel himself faltering.

_‘Crying won’t help. Crying won’t help his situation. It’ll only make it worse and you want things to be better.’_

“We’ve been married for seventeen years. It’ll be eighteen soon.”

Sherlock silently acknowledged the information he was just given. Alzheimer’s or not, Sherlock Holmes always has his unquenchable thirst for knowledge, even if he won’t remember it tomorrow morning or three days from now. As long as he knew it at some point, that was good enough for him.

“It also says that I love you, very much, apparently, and that you love me just the same.”

_‘Don’t ask the question that I know is coming. Don’t ever doubt my love for you, Sherlock…Please don’t…’_

“Is it, is it true?”

_‘Of course it is, why else would I marry you and put up with you for as long as I have?’_

“Because you could be lying, are you even John Watson?”

John sighed. He wished that it wouldn’t come to this, that Sherlock would EVER doubt his love for John, or doubts John’s love for him. There was nothing more he could do verbally, it seemed. He rose out of his comfy chair and walked into their bedroom leaving Sherlock standing there looking puzzled. He returned shortly with a DVD in his hands, it was protected by a sleeve made especially for it. Sherlock followed his “husband” over to the TV and watched as he placed the disk inside of the player. John wasn’t looking at him but he started talking to him.

“Sit, Sherlock.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere you want. The couch and the smaller armchair are yours. You loved to sit in them.”

John might not know it, but he’s speaking to Sherlock as if he was dead and not standing there in front of him. Sherlock swallowed but listened to the shorter man and took a seat in his armchair that he was so fond of. He waited patiently for John to finish what he was doing and take his seat in his chair.

“What are we watching?”

John looked at him with a smile, but it wasn’t reaching his eyes. There was no other emotion except for a deep sadness and melancholy. Sherlock has no idea why John is like this but hopefully this DVD will provide some information. It looked like a home video, as the person who was filming was hardly a professional and the quality of the video was in HI Def but the way that it was being taped hardly looked like a television show set this up. It was outside, on a sunny day, probably sometime during the summer or late spring. There were birds chirping in the background and a lot of chatter from the various people in the video. The cameraman was walking through the crowds of people, getting shots of them talking and looking as happy as the weather. It looked like a church of some sort in the background, the building was an alarming shade of white, but that had to be the brightness of the sun making it look so much more colorful. There were flowers everywhere, though Carnations seemed to be the chosen flower for whatever occasion was going on. The cameraman stopped walking because somebody was calling his attention. The camera turned to reveal a woman. She couldn’t have been more than thirty; her face was too young, too pretty to be any older than that. She was wearing a yellow sundress with a matching hair tie, which was fashioned into a bow. Her hair was brown and luminous under the sun and the shade of her dress seemed that much more vibrant. She had small lips, but they were stretched back into the widest smile they could manage. She didn’t have much make-up on, and she didn’t need it, her youth gave her all the beauty she needed.

“Congratulations to the both of you, you both deserve each other!”

Sherlock could swear that he’s seen her face somewhere, without all of the sun and the happiness. Somewhere inside, and she frowned a lot more than she should have. He couldn’t place it himself. The camera turned back around and kept walking, till yet another person got in the way. He was also smiling, and he had a glass of whiskey in his hand and his other one on the side of the camera. He looked a bit older than the young woman that they just saw, his hair was gray but it didn’t hide his attractiveness, if anything it enhanced it. He wasn’t smiling as bright as she was, but he was still pretty happy. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned and his white button-up was out for the entire world to see. Something told Sherlock that he didn’t care about that.

“I’m bloody shocked. You finally gave him purpose. I’m very happy and proud of him and for you too. Enjoy each other’s company; you two have the rest of your lives now!”

He released the camera and spun around before walking away. Sherlock can see that face too, he can see it somewhere else, and he can see it in a dark place with lights and shouting. He can see him with a much sterner look on his face. Who was he?  Why did Sherlock remember him? The cameraman finally made it to where he wanted to go. He approached a woman, an elderly woman who looked positively giddy with happiness. She beamed at the sight of the camera and stretched forward to give the cameraman a kiss on the cheek. She pulled back and then said into the camera,

“I can’t believe it! My boys are finally getting married! It certainly took you two long enough.”

Sherlock saw John smile to himself.

“Just know that I love the both of you and I hope that you two have many years of happiness!”

Sherlock could vaguely remember that voice, though when he did hear it, he remembers being very happy.

She let go of the device and let it continue on its way. It stopped very shortly after to a man who didn’t look as pleased and delighted as everyone else was. He was dressed in a tuxedo, and his jacket was buttoned up. He was standing upright and smirking into the lens. His hair was brown but it looked as if the man was balding, or starting the process shortly.

“Well, dear brother, it seems that you have finally found what makes you happy. And while I may not approve of it, your happiness is my happiness. I wish you the best.”

That voice brought up many feelings. Anger, betrayal, sadness, but the most powerful one of all was resentment. He resented that man for whatever reason. The camera turned ninety degrees to show Sherlock himself, though he looked many years younger and happier than now. He was wearing sunglasses and he was grinning from ear-to-ear when he saw the camera. He was also dressed in a tuxedo, though his looked different from the others. His looked more official and it suited him better.

“There you are!”

The camera turned around to face the man that was filming the whole time. To Sherlock’s amazement, it was John who was the cameraman. John was also wearing a tux similar to Sherlock’s, for good reason probably. Sherlock stepped into the frame; the both of them were smiling at the camera.

“This man right here, he’s gunna be my husband soon.”

Sherlock giggled.

“This man right here, I’m going to be his husband soon.”

John rolled his eyes, but laughed.

“Tell them what they’ll have to call you from now on, Sherlock.”

“Sherlock Holmes-Watson.” He stated proudly.

John’s smile grew wider as he placed a kiss on the other’s lips. After a while, they pulled apart and faced the camera again.

“To the very best of times, Sherlock.”

“To the very best of times, John. “

John fiddled with the camera and the TV screen went black, signaling that it was over. That video was filmed on his and John’s wedding day, it had to be. John switched the television off and faced Sherlock.

“Any questions?”

Sherlock looked down at his polished wedding band first, and then asked his line of inquiry.

“Who were those people we saw? At…our wedding?”

The word still sounded strange to Sherlock. John sighed and then turned his whole body in his husband’s direction. He knew this question was going to come up sooner or later, he expected that Sherlock was going to ask this.

“That woman, in the yellow dress, her name is Molly Hooper. You used to work with her years ago.”

“Worked?”

John nodded.

“You two worked in the lab of St. Barts hospital. She was in charge of the morgue and you used the chemistry lab for your cases. You remember those, don’t you?”

Sherlock answered, “I remember some…”

John let out a mental sigh of relief; at last his disease wasn’t that bad. He could still remember those fun times they had together, what made them fall in love with each other in the first place. He shook his head; he had to get back on topic.

“Anyway, you two were friends, and she loved you and did anything she could for you, however she could.”

“Did I love her back?”

John clenched his jaw.

“You did…eventually…it just took you a while.”

Sherlock nodded.

“The man with the grey hair, his name is Lestrade, Greg Lestrade. You never could remember his first name, no matter how many times we told you. You worked together on cases because he was Detective Inspector and he was in charge of them. He let you in on those cases because he needed you. He always needed you to solve them because you were the only one who could. He respected you, and in your funny way, you respected him.”

Some silence passed as Sherlock let that sink in.

“The elderly woman, who is she?”

“That’s Mrs. Hudson. She used to be our landlady, although she acted more like our mother. She took care of you and me, she bought us food, she washed our clothes, and she always checked on us to see if we were okay. She loved the both of us like we were her own.”

“Did I love her back?”

“Of course you did, Sherlock. You nearly killed a man for hurting her, and you sent her husband to the death penalty because she wanted you too. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And now to the other one we saw. That’s your older brother, Mycroft. You two…didn’t always see eye-to-eye, he was very protective of you and liked to control your life and you didn’t like that. You two fought more than siblings should normally. You liked him though, and he did love you despite what you always said. He just showed his love in the wrong way. Do you understand, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.”

As much as John wanted to tell him what happened to those people, he couldn’t, it would be too much for Sherlock to handle. He left it there for the day and let Sherlock muse through all of the information that he just got. Hopefully that would help…  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
John never wanted to see Sherlock go through what he just did an hour ago. He couldn’t stand to see him like that, in that state, of not knowing where he was, who John was. It was extremely too much to handle….

The day started off on a good foot, Sherlock had the same note on his pillow when he woke up and John once again explained to him that he was indeed married to him, and that they are very happy together. He even made Sherlock some breakfast and tea, and to his surprise, Sherlock ate it without any problems. If only it were that easy back then. They spent some time watching the telly together and making small conversation, it was a giant step for Sherlock as of late and John was happy to see him in a good mood. It wasn’t until later that day; Sherlock found his old violin resting against the wall with the case open. John was worried at first; he didn’t know how it would trigger Sherlock. He watched carefully as Sherlock knelt down and picked it up. He held it in his hands as a foreign object, like he never seen such a thing before. He looked at the bow and took it into his hands as well. With both the violin and the bow in his hands, he rose back up and slowly assumed the position that meant he was going to play it. It took Sherlock some time; he stood there for a long while.

“Sherlock, you okay?”

He abruptly started playing the violin, a lot louder than he normally would. John covered his ears at first because the only noise the instrument made was a loud screeching one. It soon mellowed out and started making real music. John didn’t know what song he was playing; classical music wasn’t really his area and more Sherlock’s.  That didn’t stop him from enjoying it any less. That was Sherlock’s talent; he could make you like any song he played, even if you didn’t know it or like the genre from whence it came.  John closed his eyes and sat back and listened to his spouse play. He was so enraptured in the soft, melodic tune that was also a touch melancholic, that when Sherlock missed a note and made the annoying shrieking noise, his eyes shot open and he jumped from his relaxed state. He looked over and saw Sherlock standing there, staring into the window with a solemn look on his face. John felt his heart rate rising as he watched quietly, waiting for Sherlock to do something before he had to intervene. Sherlock started playing from the same part he messed up on. Sure enough, he missed the note again. Sherlock, looking increasingly agitated began playing the part over and over again, messing up over and over again, and growing more and more frustrated with himself. He finally gave up and threw his violin to the floor and screamed loudly.

“I CAN’T DO IT, I CAN’T PLAY IT! I DON’T KNOW HOW TO!”

John shot up like a rocket, he didn’t rush over to Sherlock just yet, that wasn’t safe for neither him nor Sherlock, both could wind up seriously hurt.

“SHERLOCK WHAT’S WRONG?!”

“I CAN’T PLAY THE SONG, THAT’S WHAT’S WRONG, MYCROFT!”

_‘Mycroft?! Oh no, does he think….is he….Jesus….’_

“SHERLOCK, CALM DOWN! I’M NOT MYCROFT!”

Sherlock began throwing stuff around the house, glasses shattering, furniture breaking, Sherlock, falling apart.

“DON’T LIE TO ME MYCROFT, YOU ALWAYS LIE TO ME! WHY DO YOU LIE SO MUCH? WHY DO YOU ENJOY PUTTING ME THROUGH THIS?! YOU’RE A MONSTER!”

He started aiming stuff at John, which the man swiftly dodged. He had no choice, he ran over to Sherlock and grabbed both of the long limbs and held them together to prevent anything being thrown and hurting somebody. Sherlock was thrashing and swinging himself around wildly as he tried to free himself from John’s grasp.

“LET ME GO! LET ME GO! MRS. HUDSON! MRS.HUDSON, HELP! JOHN! JOHN!”

John felt everything tugging at his heart. This is what Alzheimer’s did to its victim. This is what Alzheimer’s does to the greatest mind John Watson has ever known. This is how Sherlock suffers with Alzheimer’s disease. John had no choice, Sherlock was breaking free of John’s grip and he was hitting John, mistaking him for one of his hallucinations. John wrapped Sherlock in a bear hug and embraced him tightly. Sherlock couldn’t do any damage this way, and John could attempt to calm him down.

“Sherlock, relax! I’m not Mycroft, it’s me; it’s me John. John Watson, you’re hallucinating! Calm down!”

He started to rock the ex-detective back and forth slowly, he felt the wriggling stop. And Sherlock looked up at him, wrinkled face covered with manic, fear, and sadness, the beautiful black curls he fell in love with, were now sprinkled with grey streaks. The thin body was trembling and sweating. Grey eyes darted back and forth looking at all the mess he caused, at who was holding him.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

John thought he would never see Sherlock do what he did in that moment. So scared and confused was he that he started bawling.

“I don’t know who you are...”

John couldn’t even speak, he pushed his head back into his chest and continued his soothing rocking and let his poor husband cry on his chest. When he felt the arms wrap around him, it was only then that he realized that he was crying as well. Not as much as Sherlock was but it was still pretty bad.

_‘It’s okay if I fall apart this once, just this once. Even I have a liberty to.’_

“Shh…It’s alright, Sherlock…”

John knows now that it’s getting worse, but he can’t. He can’t allow Sherlock to succumb to the disease, he just can’t.  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
2 Months Later  
~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock woke up to the good morning note again, and slid out of bed. Sherlock was grateful for having on a dressing gown; it was cold in the house. It was the dead of winter and it snowed a lot over the past few days, Sherlock could see the blankets of snow out of the window. Something didn’t seem right to him though, it seemed…empty. John wasn’t in the flat. Surely he left a note somewhere, he thought. Sherlock looked on the refrigerator and saw a note, a green post-it note. It wasn’t what he was looking for though.

_“Remember Sherlock, Mycroft died three years ago. He got a heart-attack and the paramedics didn’t arrive on time. You didn’t go to his funeral because you couldn’t handle him being in a coffin. Just remember that he loved you._

_-JW”_

Sherlock had forgotten about Mycroft. This probably isn’t the first time he’s read the note either, but it fills him with…regret reading it. He still didn’t forget that he was looking for John. He was somewhat proud of himself for that.

“John? John where are you?”

There was no response. Sherlock didn’t know where John went to, and he didn’t have his mobile number (or he probably forgot it.) He decided to ask the other person that he knew of. Mrs. Hudson. He opened the door and walked down the stairs to her flat.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

He was going to knock on her door when he saw a pink post-it on her door.

_“Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson died years ago. She caught a really bad case of pneumonia and we had to take her to the hospital where she spent the rest of her days. She told us that she loved us and you were trying so hard not to let us see you cry, but it didn’t work. She told you to cheer up, and that everyone dies. She died the day after that. You weren’t quite the same after that._

_-JW”_

Sherlock stared at that note. She died years ago. Yet here he was, standing here knocking on her door expecting her to answer. He needed to find John. He opened the front door, only to be attacked by the biting wind. He shivered and tied his gown closed and started to walk outside. He made it down the block when he saw John emerging from Tesco’s. He went grocery shopping. Why didn’t he write him a note or tell him? He raised his arm and started waving to catch John’s attention, it worked. John stood there shocked. Sherlock was outside, in the below degrees temperature, with his pajamas and dressing gown on. He was so shocked that he didn’t even notice that Sherlock was heading towards a patch of black ice. It wasn’t until John looked down that he saw what Sherlock was treading on. He shouted Sherlock’s name to try and stop him, but it was too late, Sherlock slipped and knocked his head again the ice. In the distance, Sherlock could hear John calling his name; he could hear gasps of bystanders.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE! HE’S BLEEDING!”

Before he could truly lose consciousness, he saw John’s face; it was filled with shock and worry.

“SHERLOCK! Sherlock stay with me, we’ll get you to the hospital soon, the paramedics are on their way, don’t worry…”

While John was in doctor-mode, Sherlock found himself slipping away…  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
“Sherlock….wake up…please….”

There was beeping, and people were shuffling around. He was in a hospital, and he was hooked up to a lot of machines. That fall must have been more serious than he thought.

“Sherlock!”

His eyes slowly opened to reveal a man, no, not a man.

“…John Watson…”

John’s eyes were pooling and he grasped the sickly man’s hand in his. John nodded.

“Yes, yes I’m John Watson.”

Then things started coming back to him. Not everything, but more than what he previously remembered.

“You’re…my husband…we’ve been married….seventeen years…our anniversary is tomorrow.”

John was beaming widely as the tears were still fighting to slip through his eyes.

“Yes, yes Sherlock…”

He was remembering the notes.

“I woke up and you weren’t there, I found a note. Mycroft died. I went downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson. The note…it said that she died…”

“That’s right, she had pneumonia.”

“And it said that…I wasn’t the same after that….”

John smiled and looked away.

“You were, so upset. I told you that you loved her, and that she loved you back.”

Sherlock looked around, his head was pounding and his breathing was slower. He clear had an oxygen tube in his nose.

“Where are we?”

“…St. Barts…”

“I used to…Molly…we worked here…”

John nodded.

“Molly worked here, you weren’t necessarily allowed in certain areas.”

They both smiled.

“This is where we first met, Sherlock.”

“Really….”

“Yup, except, it wasn’t in this room, it was in the chemistry lab. You deduced me. Do you remember that? Do you remember the science of deduction?”

“Not exactly…”

John looked down.

“I didn’t expect you to.”

John clutched Sherlock’s clammy hand tighter.

“Deduce me; see if you still got it.”

Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t have the strength to. He was so…drained. John looked discouraged at Sherlock’s objection. But that was because they had so little time left.

“How bad is it?”

John’s bottom lip poked out and he looked like a lost puppy. He shook his head.

“Not bad at all, you’ll be out soon.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Liar…”

John started laughing, but this time, the tears won, and they started to trickle down his round cheeks. It was as if he wasn’t crying at all. Sherlock couldn’t help but cry too, he didn’t like seeing John cry, John was strong. John didn’t cry. That’s not what soldiers do. Sherlock moved his weak hand to John’s cheek.

“Stop that…Don’t…don’t cry…”

“I’m trying not to but it seems like my body has another plan.”

“Don’t focus on that…tell me…tell me about what happened to G-G….”

“Greg.” John finished.

Sherlock nodded. A weak smile spread on his lips, his dying lips. John took a deep breath.

“Greg…He got remarried, and he moved out of London, somewhere up north, near the country.”

“That’s nice…”

John mentally agreed.

“And Molly?”

“Molly she got married to this handsome fella a little after our wedding, I’m not too sure about where she is now. She never told anyone, domestic bliss suits her well. I do know that she had three kids, two girls and one boy. His middle name is your name, Sherlock. They’re all grown now, scattered about the world, raising their own families.”

John looked at the heart-rate monitor, it was dangerously low; they had such little time left.

“Sherlock Holmes-Watson, I can’t believe it…you’re…leaving me….so-so early….”

“I know…But with the disease I have…I wouldn’t have remembered you anyway….”

“But that’s my job as your husband right? Is to make sure you never forget me?”

“You did your job and then some, John. I doubt there are many others who would ever do what you have done for me….”

“So do I…”

“We had our whole lives…”

“We still do, John.”

The both of them had uncontrollable tears. They hated goodbyes, especially saying goodbye to each other. With his last breaths, he squeezed John’s shaking hand.

“To the very best of times, John…”

_‘I love you…’_

The monitor stopped. Doctors were pouring in. That was it, Sherlock Holmes lost to Alzheimer’s. They were supposed to have a longer time than this, they were supposed to travel the world, move to Sussex, and give Sherlock those bees he’s always wanted. But no, fate had other plans. With hesitation, John slipped out of Sherlock’s lifeless hand and gently placed it on the bed. He bent down and gave those cold, pale lips the last kiss they would ever have.

“To the very best of times, Sherlock…”

_‘I love you too…’_


End file.
